


Blame it on My Youth

by standbygo



Series: November 2014 Song Challenge [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Inspired by Music, M/M, Retirementlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:18:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3527324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Courage doesn’t mean you’re not afraid. It’s knowing that you’re afraid, and doing what you need to do anyway.”</p><p>Sherlock and John are retired, but receive an unexpected client.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame it on My Youth

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> Another in a series of pieces, built out of a challenge/cooperation between ResidentBunburyist and myself. Each piece begins with a piece of music, then I write a piece and RB draws a picture for it, or RB draws a picture and I write a piece for it. 
> 
> This piece was inspired by Blame it on my Youth, by Oscar Levant and Edward Heyman.

 

_If you were on my mind all night and day_

_Blame it on my youth_

_If I forgot to eat and sleep and pray_

_Blame it on my youth._

  * _Blame it on my Youth,_[ _Oscar Levant_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Levant) _and_[ _Edward Heyman_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Heyman)




 

The doorbell buzzed for the third time before Sherlock threw down his book.

“Damn it,” he muttered to himself. “Always interruptions, never stops,” refusing to admit even to the empty room that it was the first time the bell had rung for weeks. He stood, slower than he would have liked, using the arms of the chair to support him more than he would have liked.

He crossed to the intercom unit on the wall. They had installed it two years previous, after John had slipped and fallen nearly all the way down the stairs to meet the Chinese delivery at the door. Neither of them shared their common thought – that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t going to answer the door for them any more.

“Well, come up and stop ringing the doorbell,” he shouted into the speaker, then pressed the button. A faint buzz and a click sounded from downstairs. He made his way back to his chair as the sound of footsteps came up the stairs. He had just settled back into the chair when a young woman tapped at the door.

“Sherlock Holmes?” she said. She was young, plainly but neatly dressed, hair wrapped in a bun, no makeup. Unremarkable.

“Yes, what of it?” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t take cases any more, haven’t for years. Sorry to waste your time. Goodbye.”

“I’m not here for a case,” the woman said. “I need your help to find-”

“Missing persons – not my area. Not any more. Retired. Go away.”

“-John Watson.”

Sherlock blinked at her. “Well, Miss-”

“Jones. Margaret Jones.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Whatever. I may be an old man, but I might be able to manage that.”

“You know where he is?" 

“More or less. Should be Tesco’s or Asda. Tesco’s is closer but if there’s a sale he’s got to stump all the way to Asda. Bloody Scottish background.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, her brows drawing together.

“Well, he lives here, doesn’t he?”

Silence, punctuated by a slamming door downstairs.

“Ah. There he is.”  Sherlock opened his book again, ignoring the woman, his part of the play complete.

The rustling of carrier bags, heavy footfalls on the squeaky stairs, and a couple of grunts preceded John up the stairs. “They were sold out of the salmon, Sherlock, but – oh. Hello,” John said.

“Client, John,” Sherlock said, without raising his eyes.

“Sherlock, didn’t you offer a cup of – sorry, just a second, let me put this down.” John untangled his hands from the bags, and walked into the sitting room. “Pardon him, he’s grumpy because we were out of coffee. I’m John Watson,” he said, hand extended.

Margaret took his hand, looking at him carefully. “John Hamish Watson?”

“Yes – how-” John stopped dead, staring at her face. “You – it’s remarkable, you look like – do I know you?”

“No, you don’t. But you-” She paused, raised herself up straight and tall. “You remember Mary Morstan?”

John swallowed, licked his lips. Sherlock let his book fall into his lap.

“Of course I do,” John said, his voice cracking a little. “Do you know her?”

She pursed her lips in a way that Sherlock and John both immediately recognized, like a ghost in the room. “Mary Morstan was my mother.”

+

_22 Years Earlier_

“But he’s dead, I mean you told me he was dead, Moriarty,” Mary said, her voice breaking high with stress.

“Absolutely, blew his own brains out,” John said.

“So how can he be back?”

“Well if he is, he’d better wrap up warm – there’s an east wind coming,” John said with a small smile.

Mary’s hair whipped all around her face as the winds from the plane landing hit them. John turned away from Mary, towards the plane. Mary, Mycroft, the security men, all stopped existing for John as he watched the plane land.

John’s feet tapped as the plane taxied up the runway. He shook his hands out as it pulled to a stop. He bit at his lips as the door was opened and the stairway was rolled into place. But as soon as Sherlock appeared in the door of the plane, John ran forward and met him at the foot of the stair.

“You wily bastard, you,” he grinned, and for only the second time in his life, he pulled Sherlock into a hug. For the first time in his life, Sherlock reciprocated, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders.

They released the hug, beaming at each other. “Wish I could take the credit,” Sherlock said. “Moriarty?”

“That’s what Mycroft said,” John replied. “Any theories?”

“Only seven at the moment, but I’ve only known for three minutes,” Sherlock said, striding towards Mycroft’s car.

“He must have hacked into the satellite systems – all of them, somehow, I guess,” John said as he walked beside him, automatically adjusting his gait to match Sherlock’s. Suddenly his pace faltered, and he glanced back at Mary, still standing by their economy car. “Sherlock, I should ask-”

“Of course I need you on this, John,” Sherlock said, a bit more quietly, turning his back slightly to Mycroft.  “But – can you-”

“Give me a moment,” John said, and trotted back to Mary.

Mary had a half smile on her face, but fear was still dancing in her eyes. “Mary, I-”

“You need to go, of course,” she said, her hands fluttering at his collar, smoothing it out. “No question. Try to stay safe.”

He squeezed her forearms. “Thank you. I – thank you. You stay safe too. Don’t go to the clinic, stay at home, all right?”

“Yeah, all right. I’ll finish up the nursery, put the bassinette together.”

He kissed her on the forehead, already moving away, towards the car, towards Sherlock. “I’ll call!”

She waved as they got into Mycroft’s car, kept waving as they drove away. She bit her lip and awkwardly got into her car.

~~~

Four days later, John let himself into the house. He was filthy, hungry as hell, and elated.

“Mary!” he shouted. “Mary, we got him! You wouldn’t believe where the-”

He stopped dead in the entryway, the emptiness of the house echoing back at him.

“Mary?”

The sitting room was pristine, neat, and silent. There was a bowl in the sink, dried milk and a desiccated Cheerio glued to its side. The milk in the fridge was sour. The windows were shut and locked. All her clothes were in the closet. _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ was on the bedside table, the spine cracked.  The bed was made. Her toothbrush was in the glass, dry, with a crust of toothpaste. 

Gone.

+

_Present Day_

John’s voice had slipped away from him. His mouth formed the word, failed, whispered, and then croaked, “You – you-”

“You said ‘ _was’_ ,” Sherlock said. “Mary Morstan _was_ your mother.”

Margaret didn’t take her eyes away from John, but nodded at Sherlock. “She died three months ago,” she said. “Cancer.”

“Cancer,” John said. The word came out as though he had been punched in the stomach. “Three months ago.” He shook his head, as though trying to wake up. “Three months – I searched – we looked for – I never knew whether she left, whether Moriarty had taken her-”

“She left,” Margaret said. Her voice was flat, unemotional.

John nodded, eyes darting around the room. “Left,” he said, his voice rising. “She left, left me so I never knew where she was, never knew what happened, took my…” He raised his eyes to Margaret, the full horror of the situation gathering in his face. “Took my little girl,” he whispered.

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Margaret said.

“What?” John said, his voice faltering again.

“That’s why I’m here. I would like to have proof that you are my father.”

“I need to sit down,” John said. He sat heavily in his old armchair, gripping the sides as though they were his only anchor to reality.

Margaret spoke briskly, efficiently, ignoring John’s emotion. “Before she died, Mother told me that my father was either you or David Stanhope. Do you know him?”

John put his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ,” John said, his voice muffled by his palms. “Jesus. This is a nightmare.”

“I should have downgraded him sooner,” Sherlock muttered. “I should have broken all his fingers. I should have had Mycroft ship him to Madagascar. I should have-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John said. “Everyone just shut up for a moment.”

No one in the room moved for long minutes. The only sounds were the tick of the clock on the mantle next to the skull, and John breathing heavily into his hands.

Finally, John sat up straight, put his hands on his knees. “All right,” he said tightly. He took a deep breath, and turned to Margaret. “I haven’t the first idea where David is, haven’t seen him since the day of the wedding. I suppose we could find him, if we were so inclined. We know someone who can do a DNA test, likely get results in forty-eight hours. But I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Why not?” Margaret asked in a clipped tone.

“Because you’re the spitting image of my sister Harry,” John said. “That’s what I thought when I first walked in. You look exactly like her, when she was your age.”

“Can you prove this?” Margaret said.

John’s jaw jumped with tension, then he nodded. “Just a minute,” he said. He stood and walked to the bookshelf. After a few moments of searching, he pulled out an old photo album, and flipped through it. “There,” he said, pointing. “She was about twenty there, but you can see. The resemblance.”

John and Margaret’s heads bend over the album, studying the photo. John’s eyes flickered to Margaret’s face, the fall of her hair, the line of her jaw.

At length, Margaret nodded. “Yes. I agree.” She hesitated, then added, “Thank you.”

“Would you like the photo?” John’s voice cracked again a little, betraying that he didn’t truly wish to surrender the picture.

“No, that’s not necessary,” she said. She stepped back, away from the album, away from John, back to the centre of the room. “Thank you for providing me with the information I require.” She stood a bit straighter, more formally. “I make my promise to you now, that neither of you will come to harm through me.”

John and Sherlock stared at her, stunned. “Pardon me?” John said at last. “I don’t think I understand.”

Suddenly Sherlock began to pat at his pockets, slapping at each of them in turn, then feeling along the table beside him. “God damn it. Where – I swear I left them here-”

“What’s the matter, Sherlock?” John snapped.

“Where’s my bloody spectacles, John? I swear you move them when I’m not looking.”

Despite the strangeness of the moment, John could not help rolling his eyes. “You idiot. On the mantle, in front of the bat.”

Sherlock’s hands scrabbled at the mantle, knocking off envelopes and books until he located the glasses. He put them on and turned to Margaret, staring intensely. After a moment, he nodded.

“You’re an assassin,” he said, wonder in his voice. “Just like she was. She took you away, and raised you to be an assassin. A killer for hire.”

“Very good, Mr. Holmes. Mother told me about your skills; I see she did not exaggerate.”

“You can thank astigmatism for my not seeing it the moment you walked in.”

“Indeed.”

John had gone pale; he thought about his gun, stored away… somewhere. He inched a bit closer to Sherlock. “What happens now?” he said, his voice as strong as he could force it to be.

“Did you not hear me? No harm will come to you by me,” Margaret snapped. “That’s all. Goodbye.”

She crossed to the door, efficient with her movements. “Wait a minute,” Sherlock said.

She stopped, framed in the doorway. She did not turn, but tilted her head towards John.

“Is your name really Margaret Jones?” Sherlock said.

“No, of course not,” she said.

“We were going to name you Grace,” John whispered.

She faced forward again, and her head fell for a moment. “Oh,” she said softly, and left.

+

Silence filled up the flat as Margaret left, the two men standing by the mantelpiece, frozen. They heard her nearly noiseless footsteps going down the creaking steps, and out the door.

“Jesus,” John said, his breath huffing out.

“I missed it. Completely missed it,” Sherlock said.

“She looked just like Harry. Thought she was a ghost.”

“I should have seen it the moment she walked in.”

“She got Mary’s mouth shape. And her hair.”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“Though I imagine that’s not her natural hair colour. Mary dyed her hair too. I thought it was to cover the gray.”

“All the signs were there. I should have seen.”

“But it’s dead straight, just like hers. Jesus.”

“She was carrying a gun too. I didn’t see until she turned her back to leave.”

“I can’t believe she came to look for me.”

“There was a lump at her waistband. I didn’t see, I didn’t see.”

“David. Fucking David. I had no idea. She said it was over, years before.”

“Why would she tell us that?  _Neither of you will come to harm through me_.”

“She said that Mary wasn’t sure, so that means… Oh Jesus.”

“I can’t see but I can hear still, damn it. I remember exactly what she said. _Neither of you will come to harm through me_. What did she mean?”

“I thought – we always thought – Moriarty had taken her. But she left. She left.”

“She’s an assassin – trained by Mary from childhood. She’s probably as good or better as Mary ever was.”

“Did she leave because she was worried Moriarty would come after her? After us?”

“Why would she suddenly seek us out, ask about whether you were actually her father, then promise not to harm us? She was prepared to…oh.”

“I tried to forgive her. I really tried. Maybe she didn’t believe me.”

“She had a contract for us. She was to kill us.”

“I tried to forgive her, for the sake of the baby, but – what?”

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes wide and staring. “She had a contract on us, but when she was faced with the proof that you were her father, she wouldn’t do it. She’s going to cancel the contract.”

John swallowed. “Who would want to kill us?”

“I’m sure there’s a lengthy list, John.”

“But now? We retired, Sherlock. Who would still be that pissed at us?”

“Everyone we put away over the years, I expect. But we lost our protection when Mycroft died. Someone decided to settle an old grudge.”

“Jesus,” John whispered.

Sherlock stared at John, his face paler than usual, eyes wide and staring. “What if you couldn’t prove it, John? What if she looked like David? Had his recessive genes – his connected earlobes, for instance? If she had seen you weren’t her father…”

John’s mouth opened, as though to say something, then snapped shut.

“She would have killed us, John. Right here, in the sitting room.”

“I… I need a drink,” John said.

John turned on his heel and crossed to the kitchen as though it were a military maneuver. Sherlock stayed, frozen in place, by the fireplace.

“After all these years,” Sherlock muttered. “Years of chases, and gunfire, and escaping again and again, and we could have been killed today. Just because I didn’t _see_.”

“Where the hell’s the whisky?” John said, slamming cupboard doors.

“I didn’t look, I didn’t observe. I couldn’t see. I’m old. Old.”

“Or scotch. Didn’t Molly give me some last Christmas?”

“If she had shot you first… I can’t. Not anymore.”

“There it bloody is. Why do you always put it in that high cupboard, you damn giraffe?”

“It’s too late, but I can’t anymore,” Sherlock said, and lifted his chin and went into the kitchen.

“Reach it down for us, Sherlock,” John said, getting two glasses from the drying rack and rubbing at them.

Sherlock reached up and slammed the cupboard door shut. He turned to face John, his jaw set. “John, I need to say something.”

“Pour us a drink first, then tell me.”

“No.”

John blinked. “Don’t be childish, Sherlock. I just want a drink, like a grown up. We’ve had a terrible shock.”

“You drink too much. And I won’t wait any longer. I’ve waited too long already.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I knew it on the roof. At St. Bart’s. I almost said it then, but I got… I was afraid. I threw away my phone before I could say it. To stop myself.”

“The roof…? Sherlock, that was years and years ago! We said we didn’t need to keep hashing over it.”

“So many times while I was away, so many messages I wrote and deleted. And I came back and Mary… what are you doing?”

John had crossed to the sink and was filling the kettle. “If you’re not going to let me have a whisky, I’m going to at least have tea.”

Sherlock crossed to John in two quick strides, grabbed the kettle from his hands, and yanked the wire out of it. He threw the pieces into the sink.

“No, John,” he said. “You always want to have a drink, or make tea, or some other prevarication. I need to say this. Now.”

“The fuck, Sherlock?” John looked at the broken kettle with shock. “Have you completely-" 

“I meant to say it when I returned, but I got afraid and pretended to be a waiter. I meant to say it when I was teaching you to dance but I got afraid. I meant to say it after I killed Magnussen, before I got on the plane, but I got afraid and made a joke. I meant to say it when you had gall stones two years ago, and we both thought you were having a heart attack, and-”

“You have lost it. Finally lost your fucking mind, Sherlock,” John said, still staring at the kettle, his hands clenching into fists. “You broke the – I can’t believe you!” He strode out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock shouted.

“Out!” John snapped, grabbing his coat.

Sherlock ran to him, and snatched the coat from his hands, throwing it in the corner. “No. Listen to me, now!”

John darted to the door, and Sherlock blocked him, his eyes wide and desperate. John attempted to shoulder past him, but Sherlock pulled him back with surprising strength. Suddenly they were grappling in the doorway, grunting with exertion and astonished anger. Sherlock used his height and arm length to get the advantage, wrapping his arms around John’s chest, pinning his arms at his sides.

“You crazy fucking-” John spluttered. “Let me go!”

“I have been at your side for twenty five years, John, but I will not hold this in one moment longer. I was afraid to tell you but I am not afraid any more. I’m an old man now and I’m tired of keeping it inside.”

Sherlock leaned in close to John’s ear and whispered, “I love you, John Watson. You are my world entire. I live only because of you.”

He released John and stepped back.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, chests heaving. John’s face was red from exertion, and he stood, slightly hunched over, as though Sherlock was still holding him. Sherlock’s shoulders were slumped at first, then he gradually stood straight and tall, chin out and staring at John – defiant, and yet so, so frightened.

“You bastard,” John said.

Sherlock blinked.

“Twenty five years we’ve danced around this. Everybody assuming we were a couple. You think I didn’t notice you never said a thing? Not once did you ever say, ‘We’re just friends.’ Not once.”

John’s gaze rested at Sherlock’s feet. His fists were clenched so tightly Sherlock could see his arthritic knuckles going white.

“I knew what you wanted to say, you know. At the plane, when you were heading off to Mongolia or Poland or whatever.”

“Serbia.”

“It doesn’t matter where you were going, Sherlock!” John snapped, looking up at Sherlock. He breathed deeply and looked back down at the floor. “I knew what you wanted to say and why you made a joke instead. And I thought – but Mary was there – and the baby – and…” John stuttered to a stop. His eyes slowly rose to Sherlock’s face. “You weren’t the only one who was afraid.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “And now?” he said, his voice crackling and soft.

John laughed, a soundless, breathy sound. “I was a soldier, Sherlock. You know how soldiers define courage?”

Sherlock shook his head from side to side, slowly.

“Courage doesn’t mean you’re not afraid. It’s knowing that you’re afraid, and doing what you need to do anyway.”

John stood up, as straight and tall as his body would allow. He stepped forward, leaned up, and kissed Sherlock – dry, soft and shy. Then he stepped back, looking back down at Sherlock’s feet. He nodded once, sharply.

“There,” he said.

Sherlock stood still as a statue, but for his eyes blinking fast, and his fingertips at his lips. He stared at John; John kept his eyes cast down, his fingers flexing at his sides. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, snapped it shut again. Then he took a hesitant, slow, half step forward.

John’s eyes flicked up to Sherlock, and he closed the distance between them.

They stood close together, but not pressed together; their hands rose and gently traced each other’s faces. Fingertips fumbled along lips, cheekbones, eyebrows, and combed deep into thinning and white hair. Their hands shook as they touched, memorizing each other’s faces by feel, the same faces which they had seen every day for years and knew by sight by heart, but had never touched.

After several long moments of exploration, John’s hands cupped on either side of Sherlock’s throat, his thumbs tracing along the edge of his jaw. Sherlock wrapped his left hand around the back of John’s neck, and slid his right hand down to John’s waist. They tilted their foreheads together.

“My God,” John whispered.

“All these years, John.”

“My God. Sherlock. I can’t believe this is real. Is it real?”

“Yes – I – I hope so.”

They laughed softly, and it felt natural as rain to move from laughing to kissing – tenderly at first, then rapidly tipping over into passionate and fiery. Sherlock’s arm snaked around the small of John’s back and pressed him closer, causing John to break the kiss and sigh up to the ceiling.

“John?” Sherlock said, a note of insecurity in his voice John had never heard before.

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” John said, slowly backing Sherlock against the wall of the hallway.

As Sherlock’s back hit the wall, and they pressed into each other, both exhaled hard, with a hiss and a moan. Sherlock looked down at John, his eyes wandering all over John’s face.

“John,” he sighed. “I want-”

“Yeah,” John whispered.

“We’re – it’s not too late, is it? We’re not too old?”

John smiled up at Sherlock, with a dark and electrified look that Sherlock had not seen in years. “God, I hope not.”

They pressed closer as Sherlock said, “Shall we try, then?”

“Yes – yes – your room?” John said, tugging Sherlock down the hall.

“Wouldn’t want to make an old man climb the stairs.”

“Bastard,” John grinned as he kicked the door shut.

+

“I still can’t believe you broke the kettle,” John said.

They were sitting cross legged and naked on the bed, eating Chinese takeaway straight out of the boxes.

“I needed to make a point, John,” Sherlock said.

“Couldn’t you have made the point without destroying household appliances?”

“I will buy you a dozen kettles, all right?”

“I don’t want a dozen kettles, I want-” John stopped as they caught each other’s eyes, and smiled, slow and warm. “Just one will do,” he said fondly.

Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a smile, the one that only John had ever seen. He picked up a shrimp with his chopsticks and held it up to John. John closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and Sherlock carefully placed the shrimp on John’s waiting tongue. John took Sherlock’s takeaway box while he chewed, and put both boxes on the bedside table.

“Come here,” he said.

They stretched out until they were lying side by side, touching and kissing, heat gathering between them again.

“Thank you,” John murmured against the skin of Sherlock’s neck.

“For what?”

“For breaking the kettle. You mad bastard.”

Sherlock grinned. “Youthful impetuousness, you know.”

 

 

End


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